After The End
by Historically Fictional
Summary: It is 2219. Thirty years after Commander Shepard disappeared into the good night, her body lost to have her mind live on in the Reapers' she fought so hard against, controlling them. For the new council, and a new team of Spectres, the fight for peace has begun. It will be a long road - a hard one. Paved in blood and violence. Features a new cast with some throwbacks.


_**After The End (Mass Effect)**_

"Instantaneous collapse." The boy said, his fringe slightly tinged blue in fear and his eyes narrowed in furrowed concentration. "What occurred, Professor, was instantaneous collapse. Despite months of Reaper assault, despite the deaths of a hundred worlds, nothing was so damaging as the loss of the relays. Even today – two decades after the massive damage to the relays – we're still watching the after effects of physical collapse on the galaxy as a whole. Even with the Serpent Nebula once again the hub of galactic culture – and with the Council once more intact, albeit far more level, it seems as if the future is to be one of conflict and expedition, rather than veiled diplomacy under the threat of the Citadel's might. We are no longer a commanding force, but a unifying body. One who continually watches Shepard's specter floating in the deep. The Reapers still live – with the mind of a woman whom cares for the galaxy." He paused a final moment, looking up. "But it seems the galaxy does not wish to care for itself."

An excerpt from a Turian teen's speech at Palaven University - 2205. Trokah was his name. He would later do his time in the Turian army serving in the campaign on Valara – fighting Batarian remnants and Terminus forces attempting to exploit a deactivate Geth core on the planet. They were only too true, when young Sergeant Trokah was heavily wounded in action, the words that he had spoken.

For all that people saw the death of the Reapers as – it was ultimately a new beginning: one to a world where the only truths in life are, again, death and taxes.

The year is 2219.

For all their work in saving the universe – nothing has changed. War still shapes the galaxy, nations still wage hellfire despite their ties on the field against the Reapers.

Human, Salarian, Turian, Asari – Volus, Hanar, Rachni, even – no force was untouched by the fires of the last war.

Yet despite thirty years of rebuilding, despite thirty years of reconstruction and reconstitution, all that remains is the same old pecking order: now leveled with the downsizing of the four empires that once controlled galactic politics. Every nation, large or small, sat in congress now. There was no Citadel Council to command the various races.

There was only a conclave of like-minded people who believed in the authority the Citadel commanded. For that, there was some hope in the world.

Only a small group of people had any place to say they spoke for the galaxy. With a license to do what they must, and a drive to do what they will, these silent few serve in every capacity to ensure peace and justice is spread across the galaxy, whatever the cost.

They are the Spectres. They are the law.

And they are Legion.

_**Xalas, Continent of Idris**_

"Mark seventeen. Mark eighteen. Pair moving east to southeast. Bearing... 116." A gravelly voice stated, his hardsuit covered in foliage and equipment pouches. His rifle – equally camouflaged with its bipod dug several inches into the ground – slowly tracked a distant target.

A Salarian woman nodded, tapping a datapad and snapping it back to her hip. It was too open and exposed for holograms – pads were stealthier, and hardier for combatants like them. "Tagged. You have a plan?" She asked the human.

"I'm on comms with Tro. We should be getting a Turian bombardment from a frigate captain who owes favors. I trust you've got your cloak ready? I can cover-" His eyes snapped up, a small burst of fog coming out of his mouth in the chill of the jungle's morning. "Incoming." He whisper-shouted, slapping his helmet against the dirt and covering his facemask with his arms. A four-pack of red-hot pulses hit the ground inside the camp, ripping up dirt and exploding with kinetic force like a supersized grenade, overpressure flattening the cantonment.

"It's decided." The Salarian replied, her camouflaged armor suddenly kicking active and meshing totally with the environment. "I'm Shark, you're Archer. What're Tor and his team?"

"Bear." Archer replied, settling in behind his rifle. "I've got the watchtower. When we nab the target, I'll relocate and link up at site delta. Don't fuck up."

"Noted." Shark disappeared like a ghost into the jungle, leaving Archer with his eyes on his scope. A single yellow-armored figure drifted into his sights, confused and with his weapon at the ready. A small zip put a single round through his shields and his skull in one punch.

A triplet of explosions rocked the northern side of the compound, camouflaged infantry in high-quality Turian armor storming the compound instantly. Two with jetpacks hit the top of a surviving building, snapping out marksman rifles and ripping heads off the local mercenaries. The remaining four – including one with solid black armor and yellow underarmor – assaulted through the compound, gunfire quickly pinning them in a section of the compound with a pair of hovertanks raining fire on them. Two men were already firing rockets, and that left the tanks facing Archer in the clear.

He aimed for the first's powerbox and fired, cutting clean through the barriers and penetrating the mass core. It crunched into the ground, engines offline. A few well-thrown det charges and it was down, forcing the other tank to slowly retreat. The distraction was such that nobody was manning their thermals enough to spot a single figure slipping into the southeastern building. A few pops of silenced gunfire went unheard over the Turian fireteam's gun battle.

"Bear to Archer." A radio call echoed. "Advisory – Delta extract has been reoriented." The black and gold figure was talking into his helmet, standing a bit more relaxed. "We'll have a much larger assist, but you're going to need to eliminate the AAA at Site Bravo. That's all you – I can't spare anyone. Can you do it?" Archer glanced at his rig, the heavy ruck on his back, and to the assault rifle at his right hip. He strapped the ruck a bit tighter, letting his Widow AMR collapse and fall into place on his left hip. He slowly withdrew the assault rifle, its silenced tip glowing a soft blue before losing coloration to the camouflage software. "Can you do it, Archer?"

"That's affirmative, Bear. I can handle it." With that, Archer disappeared off his hill, the gunfire of Alpha Site off his mind as he disappeared through the underbrush. There were a few dangerous animals on Xalas continent – but none so dangerous as a Spectre in his element. Archer was a devil – his suit's exoskeleton carried his ruck full of gear as if it wasn't there – his rifle in near-ready position despite its weight and that of his armor and cargo. Archer glanced up past the sweat in his eyes, reading the compass atop his helmet, and continued following the marker. Hot exhaust from his mouth poofed out in massive white tufts as he moved, the chill of the morning freezing his lungs to the bone.

It only made him more prepared, when it came down to it. Cresting a hill, Archer's rifle was at the ready. A pair of red diamonds appeared on his display, two yellow armored men's helmets locking eyes with his visor. _Brrt. Brrt._ Two corpses hit the floor, the silencer zipping rounds into each before Archer hit the release on his Rucksack, chucking it against a cantonment wall. He pressed up against it, tapping thrice on his omnitool. A datasniffer popped over the wall, hilighting a half-dozen targets before being popped by a EM grid on-site.

"Fuck." Archer swore to himself, letting his rifle cling extended to his chest as he glanced up the wall, wrapping his hands around a handhold. It was a three second climb that felt like minutes, before he pushed himself over the wall and landed in a roll on the other side. He repeated himself and rose, rifle ready, and spattered a twelve-man formation of enemies with his rifle. The formation leader drew his pistol, rattling off three rounds – one terminal. It pierced Archer's shield, connecting with his left shoulder and spattering blood behind him. A quick medigel dispersal handled that before the Spectre even noticed.

Dodging right into cover, a veritable hail of fire came down from two watchtowers. Aware of time constraints, a pair of flying disks fluttered toward each and detonated – one prematurely by the EM grid. With only one man left in the towers, Archer made a quick gambit. He sprinted hard from his cover, twisted left, and let a dozen rounds bloody the tower – knocking the enemy out of the compound. The heavy gun was in view now, scanning the sky. No joy.

Approaching a nearby door, Archer set a disk grenade and quickly ducked, the door cracking open and collapsing. He rushed inside, the control center all focused on him, and quickly sprayed a half-dozen enemies without hardsuits. They never stood a chance. All that remained was the battery commander, his six eyes locked hard on Archer's two. A single shot hit the enemy in the head. KIA. Archer approached his station, checking the electronics subsystem and calmly overloading the guns. He pressed down the fire command, and the four guns let loose a quad torrent of laser fire: conveniently melting the firing tubes and disabling the gun.

"Bear, Shark. Bravo is down."

"Affirmative, Archer. Retain your position – plans have changed." Archer's eyes narrowed.

"Interrogative – what's changed?"

"Extraction was hit in orbit by enemy assets. Will not be able to effect rescue operations. We have the asset, but enemy QRF has us cut off on all sides. Bear will stave off and go to ground – Shark is already in the wild. Recommend you find somewhere to bunker down and make for Xalas City. We'll rendevous at the active site if all goes well."

"Which it won't, Bear." Archer replied, heading outside. The area was still clear, thankfully. He headed back over the wall, acquiring his gear and strapping in, disappearing into the jungle. After a three mile hike, he stopped and set up his active camouflage tent, stowing his weapons and cleaning them as best he could. There was nothing else to do.

Hopefully Shark would get the target out.

For now? All Archer could do was wait. Such was the nature of being a Spectre, some days.


End file.
